


The Failing Candle Still Casts a Shadow

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> It surprises him, that his hands still know how to be gentle. They’ll forget soon.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Failing Candle Still Casts a Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to septembers_coda for the beta! Any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.

It doesn’t hit him all at once. 

It happens in flashes. It’s the flicker of a wormy deathmask behind Crowley’s smirk, before Dean blinks and it’s gone and Crowley snaps his fingers and then _he’s_ gone. He says something as he vanishes, and Dean, only halfway to consciousness, takes a second to process it. He feels like he’s hearing it from a distance, an echo from deep underground: _You’ll find me when you’re ready._

He props himself up on his elbows, still blinking. The last thing he remembers is pain—the kind that’s too big and too all-encompassing to pin down its source, the blunt-force shock of it. Sam’s gutted expression swimming before his eyes. Fighting to force words out past the gurgle of blood in his lungs. Darkness.

The last thing he remembers is dying.

And now he’s sitting up in his own bed, and he feels fine. No, better than that. He feels _good_ , alive, energized—the kind of good he’d almost forgotten was possible after months of waking up feeling like dried-out crap. 

Only there’s the ghost of something ringing in his ears, a dream half-forgotten on the way to waking up. He can’t remember the details, just what it felt like: a twist in his gut, a scream of protest, a sigh of relief.

There’s something in his hand. He glances down, frowns when he sees the Blade clutched in his fist, held above his heart. Because he can’t feel it pulling at him the way he did before. No urgency, no pulse of need in his veins. The red mist’s all cleared away and it’s a brand new day. Dean straightens his arm carefully. The Mark is still there, but he can’t feel it anymore. It feels… dormant, somehow. Inert. He sets the blade down on the nightstand and it’s okay, easy, doesn’t feel like ripping off a limb.

What the hell happened here? Maybe Cas or Gadreel got their wings back somehow, zapped back down from Heaven and pulled some angel mojo on him? But if Cas knew any way to fix this, he would’ve said so already. Dean knows he would. 

Besides which, Cas isn’t here. He and Gadreel are behind bars or worse. Things are still fucked up. They still failed. 

There. There’s the familiar old sick sadness, the familiar loss and a twinge of the familiar fear. Makes all of this crap start to feel a little more real. 

Dean pushes it down. _Don’t think about it, not now. You wanna freak out about how Cas is screwed because you couldn’t kill some nerd with a neckbeard, you do it later._

It can’t have been Cas, which leaves—Crowley. Why the hell else would he still have been hanging around here when Dean woke up?

Fuck. Sammy. If Sam—

Dean is on his feet in a second. The world is too bright around him, and Sam’s probably gonna give him some lecture about how the recently resurrected are supposed to take it easy, but Dean has more important things to worry about right now. 

He has to know.

\----

The library’s empty, and Sam isn’t in his room. Dean makes his way down to the basement.

Less than a day ago, Sam and Cas had him locked up in there. And yeah, that’s something else that really doesn’t add up here. Whatever Sam might’ve done to bring him back, whatever Dean might’ve said before he— _before_ … well, he still can’t see that Sam would willingly leave him alone with Crowley, in an unlocked room, with the Blade in his hand.

Something about this whole situation isn’t right. Dean feels a knot of suspicion tighten in his chest, easier to hold onto than relief. His hand darts automatically to the back of his waistband before he realizes he’s unarmed. 

The doors to the basement are wide open. It’s quiet down here, but Dean’s a hunter and he knows quiet, and he knows that this isn’t the kind of quiet that means _empty_. It’s a breathing, waiting kind of quiet. Whoever’s down here, they’ve already heard him coming. 

He shrugs. What the hell.

“Sam?” he calls, “Sammy? You in here?” and then something hits him like a brick on the back of the head. 

Dean stumbles, head spinning, rights himself and turns to face whatever’s attacking him.

Sam. 

Sam is levelling a gun at him.

His face is waxy and pale, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. But Dean _sees_ the brief flare of hope in them, sees Sam struggle to tamp it down, sees the twitch of a muscle in his jaw as he schools his mouth into a hard line.

“What the hell are you?” Sam grits out. His voice trembles a little and he doesn’t even bother to look embarrassed about it. “And what the hell makes you think you can get away with walking around looking like _my brother_?”

Dean holds his hands up in surrender, opens his mouth to say, _Sam, it’s okay, it’s me_. A more urgent question pushes its way out: “You didn’t bring me back?” 

For a second Sam just stares at him. Then his hands tremble, the gun in his hand wobbles and his shoulders sag.

“ _Dean_?” Sam says. It’s slow, wondering. Then he shakes his head, makes a helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Only you would ask that.”

“Yeah,” Dean manages not to ask what the hell that’s supposed to imply. “Yeah, it’s me.” He swallows. “But. You didn’t?”

Sam shakes his head again. “I’m trying,” he says, like it’s an apology, gesturing to encompass the books open on the floor, the herbs smoldering in their bowl, the thread of blood trickling its way down his forearm. “I was trying.”

Dean looks down instead of at Sam’s eyes. He watches the blood and realises he can _smell_ it. Not like his brief vacation in vamp-land—there’s no thirst to it—but it’s a tang of iron in the back of his throat, a pressure at the base of his skull. 

He smells blood and he misses the Blade. Not like he did before. He doesn’t need it, he’s not about to puke because it’s not in his hand. He doesn’t want to use it, even. But he misses it. It’s the thought of holding it, the thought of being somewhere where blood spills and it isn’t complicated, where everything’s narrowed down to the moment and there aren’t a bunch of unanswered questions hanging over his head.

Now, Sam’s taking a step towards him, a puzzled frown on his face. “It didn’t work,” he says, quietly, and Dean remembers they were talking about those questions, trying to find the damn answers. “So how?”

It sounds like Sam is reluctant to ask, like he’s not sure he really wants to know the answer.

Dean moves to meet him, steps into the light spilling in from the doors. Hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath as their eyes lock. 

Then Sam’s grabbing at him, tugging at the front of his torn-up shirt, pulling it down until the intact anti-possession symbol on Dean’s chest is visible. Sam stares at it, then looks up.

His eyes are shining again. Not with hope, this time. This time it’s sorrow.

\----

Dean feels it, when Cas shows up at the bunker. A change in the air, so that it stings like swimming in chlorinated water. A faint vibration humming on the backs of his hands, burrowing its way down into his bones. It’s uncomfortable, makes Dean think about shrugging out of his skin. And this is with Cas still almost out of juice. Just how bad would it be if he was at full power? ( _Damn_ , it occurs to him, _Meg must’ve been a hell of a masochist_.)

He doesn’t know how to feel. Gadreel is dead, but Dean can’t manage to be sad about that. Metatron’s rotting in his own damn jail, and Cas is free and he’s alive. Dean might be damned, but Sammy and Cas, they’re still themselves, they can keep on trucking. As long as he’s the only member of this family done for good, that’s okay. 

He keeps on telling himself that. Maybe if he tries enough times it’ll stick.

There’s a tap at the door to his room. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look up when the door eases open a moment later, even though he can feel Cas right there, looking at him, radiating power like static. Cas doesn’t hover in the doorway, just comes right on over and kneels down in front of him, trying to look into his face. 

Dean jerks his head away. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t, Cas. I know.”

He doesn’t actually know what he thinks Cas is about to say. But Cas doesn’t say anything, at first. He reaches out, takes both of Dean’s hands. Holds them in his own, his thumbs tracing circles on Dean’s open palms. Dean is too startled to pull back, even. 

Then Cas sighs.

“Dean,” he breathes out, at last. “What have they done to you?” 

His voice is so gentle, no accusation in it. He sounds like he really means what he’s saying. But it’s wrong, it’s _wrong_ , it’s a goddamn lie. There is no _them_ —not Crowley, not Abaddon, not even Cain—not really. It was Dean who did this. He was the one who said ‘yes’ to it. And hearing Cas try to take the blame away from him, feeling Cas grasp his hands like he can’t see all of the blood on them—it opens up a hollow inside his chest, a swallowing darkness. He has to shut it down.

Dean grits his teeth, pulls his hands out of Cas’s grip. “Cas,” he says. “Dude. Get outta here, you’re making my teeth itch.”

Cas doesn’t move away from him or look offended like he expects. He just says, “Oh. Of course,” and, “Dean, I’m sorry,” and he shuts his eyes for a moment. A look of real effort crosses his face, and then all of it—the hum of power, the tingle in the air, the intensity of his presence—just damps down, like he’s flipped a dimmer switch. Dean blinks the discomfort from his eyes and feels like—well. Like normal. Like he’s human again, only he isn’t, he never will be.

Then it occurs to him to wonder what kind of an effect being around _him_ is having on Cas. If it hurts the same way.

Probably, he figures. So what the hell is Cas pretending for?

Cas is watching his face. “Is that better?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Stop it, Cas,” he says. “Stop talking to me like I’m—” _Like I’m still me_ , he thinks, but it won’t come out. He swallows. “Like I’m the victim here.”

“If not you,” Cas says, still quiet, “then who?”

“Fuck, Cas, I don’t know.” Dean scowls, looks down at his hands. They hang loosely in his lap now that Cas isn’t holding them anymore. “Maybe there aren’t any yet. Maybe I haven’t gotten started on the list.”

“Don’t,” Cas says. He’s sitting next to Dean on the bed, then; is way closer than he oughta be. And he doesn’t just stare, the way he used to. He takes handfuls of Dean’s shirt and pulls him closer. Dean can’t feel the electric prickle of Cas’s power in the air anymore, but he can feel the warmth of Cas’s skin, the tremble in his hands. Cas’s eyes are wide. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says again. 

And then Cas is kissing him.

Cas is kissing him. Hard and needy, all teeth and tongue and Cas curling a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, making a low, helpless sound in his throat, like he didn’t really know he wanted to do this until he did it and now he’s powerless to stop. 

And Dean—Dean’s wanted this, without ever exactly thinking it, for so damn long, but not like this. He’s paralyzed. Doesn’t know whether to lean in and just fucking go for it or pull away like he ought to before Cas can realize what he’s done and start regretting this.

It’s Cas who decides for him. After a couple seconds ( _forever_ , nowhere near long enough) he stops, just presses his forehead to Dean’s and stays there. His hand rests where it is, fingers nestled in the hair at the back of Dean’s head. 

Cas is breathing hard. Dean—isn’t, even though he feels like he should be.

“What was that for?” Dean manages, after a moment.

Cas’s fingers tighten reflexively, and he takes a shuddering breath before he answers. “Metatron told me you were dead,” he says, at last. His eyes are wet and dark. “I _felt_ it. You were gone. Dean. You were dead.”

They’re still touching, their faces close. Dean realises he’s clutching at Cas’s sleeve with one hand. He should push Cas away, but he can’t yet. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I am, Cas,” he says, low and hopeless. “I am.”

Cas doesn’t argue, doesn’t say ‘no’ with his words, but he doesn’t let go, either. After a moment, he slides his hand around to cup the side of Dean’s face and kisses him again. Just a gentle brush of lips this time, waiting for a reaction, like he’s not really sure Dean is okay with this. Like Dean is still somebody who deserves the consideration.

His eyes are closed now. He trails the pads of his fingers down Dean’s cheek, along the line of his jaw. Memorizing him. Or—no.

Because Cas isn’t really looking at him, can’t see the black that slides down over Dean’s eyes when he blinks, or the shadow of something rotting and alien behind his human face. Cas is using his hands to map flesh and bone like they’re the things that are real, the things that matter, not the mask of a goddamned monster. 

He’s _pretending_. Trying to shape a _shoulda-been-different_ into a possibility with his touch, with desperate, stupid denial.

Dean stills, but there’s a treacherous little voice in the back of his mind that says, _why the hell not?_

 _Why not? You’ve wanted this forfuckingever. And he’s right here and he’s desperate, and who cares_ how _he wants you? He’d let you pin him to the mattress and fuck him, if you just went for it. He’d let you strip off his clothes and ride his dick right to the edge of oblivion, come all over his chest and bite bruises into his neck. So what if he has his eyes closed, so what if he’s pretending you’re still something different? Why not?_

And that’s why not. Dean can feel the thought try to turn vengeful, how easy it could become, _who cares_ if _he wants you?_ The twinge of anger—at Cas, at himself, at the whole screwed-up world—that hardens into a leaden lump and settles in his gut.

With an effort, Dean pulls away. He takes hold of Cas’s hands with his own and places them back in Cas’s lap and lets go.

“Cas,” he says. “We can’t. Not now.”

Cas looks at him. His face is soft, sad, shadows filling the hollows of his eyes. He opens his mouth, looks like he’s about to argue, but then he nods and says, “I know,” his gaze coming to rest gentle on Dean’s face. 

Later, Dean will think that that’s when he decides.

\----

Cas falls asleep, eventually, still in his coat and shoes and everything, sprawled out on Dean’s bed atop the covers.

Dean can’t quite manage to kick him out. He doesn’t need his bed anymore, after all, he figures. He may as well let Cas sleep there. It’s weird, Cas being the one who needs to sleep, Dean the one watching him. So many echoes there. Just standing here, watching, Dean feels the ghosts of a life he can’t have anymore pressing in around him.

He’d stay, if things were different. He’d watch over Cas until the end of the night, if things were different. Make sure he was safe from harm.

Cas doesn’t stir while Dean packs up, takes his gun—habit more than anything—and leaves his cellphone on the nightstand. Dean crouches at the side of the bed, stares into Cas’s face. He looks older than he did when Dean first knew him. Dean always figured angels—or their vessels, anyway—probably didn’t age, but there’s a tiredness in Cas now, the dark circles under his eyes carved deeper than they once were. Even in sleep he doesn’t really look relaxed, a furrow between his brows that never completely gets smoothed out. 

Like this, the flicker of his grace feels barely-there. Not a supernova anymore. A candle flame under glass. He could almost be just a man.

Just a man, just a day (a whole goddamn lifetime) too late.

Dean reaches out, brushes his thumb down Cas’s cheek. It surprises him, that his hands still know how to be gentle. They’ll forget soon.

Cas doesn’t stir, dead to the world. Dean turns out the lamp and closes the door behind him.

\----

The door to Sammy’s room is half-open, and Dean can’t help sneaking a peek through as he passes. Sam is asleep, some moldy old book from the library open on the pillow beside him, the line of light from the open doorway bisecting his face.

He hasn’t given up yet. 

His handgun is on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, just out of immediate reach. Dean knows he’s been sleeping with it under his pillow, the last couple months. Weird—like Sam feels as if he’s out of danger, like he thinks the worst has already happened. Probably hasn’t even loaded it with devil’s trap bullets like Dean told him to.

Worst already happened? Dean knows better, knows it’s still going on. He can feel it happening to him, every second. The flares of irrational anger that turn to dead calm but don’t stop being anger. The Blade—the way it doesn’t call to him anymore, just is. Is part of him, whether he’s holding it or not. The darkness solidifying at the core of him.

Cas—a failing, guttering flame, still clinging like the stubborn sonofabitch he is to the one thing guaranteed to drag him down. 

Sam, with his eyes still on that light at the end of the tunnel, working into the night, plugging away at the books like it’ll get them there someday. 

There’s so much darkness everywhere, but those two, they’re little pinpricks of starlight peeking through the black. Guiding lights. They’d be that for him, if he let them. But.

Dean’s a lost soul, sure, but he has no home to find his way back to. Not now. He can’t live in the light where they are anymore. He’s an infecting darkness, the shadow of a tumor on an x-ray. He’ll take them both down with him, given the chance. He’ll damn them both to hell, and maybe by the time it happens he won’t even care.

But he can do this one last thing. Get outta here and keep running. Give Sammy and Cas time to say sayonara to their illusions before they have to take him out—because they _will_ have to take him out, no question about it. Give them time to give up on him. 

He can do this one last human thing. 

Sam mumbles something and turns over in his sleep, and Dean catches his breath, stands deathly still at the door until Sam sighs and subsides, his face turning slack again. Then he walks away.

\----

In the library, the lamp on Sam’s desk is still on. There’s a pile of candles on the table next to it, half-burned, from Sam’s abandoned Crowley-summoning earlier.

Dean can’t say goodbye. He can’t stay. The longer he stands here, the more chance there is that Cas will wake up and figure out he’s gone, or that Sam will get up for a midnight glass of alfalfa juice or whatever that weirdo green crap is he keeps in the fridge. But he doesn’t want to walk away like he’s sneaking out the bedroom of a one-night hookup, like it means nothing.

Dean makes a bargain with himself, in the end. He kills the lamp and lights a candle—a crappy little stub of one, nearly done. He watches it burn and he doesn’t say a prayer.

He thinks he’s gonna wait for it to burn out, but somehow he can’t manage to. He leaves it burning while he hefts his duffel over his shoulder and climbs the stairs. 

The draft from the open door makes the flame waver crazily, but it doesn’t go out. It’s still flickering when Dean turns away and walks out into the night.


End file.
